Yesterday morning the spring was definitively removed from my step, as it always is, after an encounter with my "local" book shop.

In this case, local means Borders. I needed to get hold of one book and two mainstream pop CDs. And I wanted to buy some book plates from Paperchase, which is a concession tucked in there.

Walk in and you are bombarded with the visual cacophony of three-for-two offers, TV chefs and Parky's biography. Of course they have a wide selection of books, but the place is such a jungle – Aldi is surely more of a pleasure to visit, and I don't say much there – that locating what you want is a nightmare, and as for an enjoyable browse, forget it.

I headed upstairs and tried to find the CDs. A staff member, appealed to, said, candidly, "Our music selection is terrible." No go, then. I tried for the book, edging my way towards the relevant section, where the shelves were full of misshelved volumes and a mess. It wasn't there. I talked to the staff member again (who gets full points for being pleasant). He found the book on the computer, where it registered as "in stock", but he couldn't locate it on the shelves. He told me that the system did not necessarily reflect reality. Bookplates - well, forget it. The assisant I spoke to didn't know what the word meant.

I came away empty handed, and ordered the stuff later on Amazon, where I now do nearly all my book shopping – with a heavy heart. The other local option was Waterstone's, but I know from bitter experience that it usually puts me in a worse mood than Borders. Last time I was in there a staff member told me off for reading a book. Well, I was about to buy it.

There used to be two independent book shops on this stretch of shops, and very nice they were too. Angel Bookshop was a particular favourite. It was a bit haphazard towards the end, but always a pleasure to come to. When I was a tiny child my much older brother, then a medical student, used to buy beautifully illustrated books for me here. It was a civilised place to be. But it went a few years back.

Then there was, close to work, another indy, called Metropolitan Books. Phil Griffiths, the fantastic owner, didn't always have what I wanted, but he was a delight to chat to and knew precisely what he was talking about. Even if you had to wait a couple of days for an order to come in, you'd always leave Met Books feeling like your day had become rather better, not worse. Phil closed down earlier this year – a black day.

Which leaves me with no independent local book shops and wondering how capitalism has not winnowed out such obviously unsatisfactory stores as Waterstone's and Borders.